antigravity
by singsilverlight
Summary: Castiel had said that an artist is nothing without his canvas. In that, Dean heard a blessing of his absolution.


_Castiel had said that an artist is nothing without his canvas._

 _In that, Dean heard a blessing of his absolution._

ǂ

The first time it happened, months ago now, it was nothing but a thoughtless gesture. Cas had been human for two weeks. He was still adjusting. Dealing. Climbing the fucking walls of the Bunker, willing them to crack and shatter to make space for everything he ever was and everything he should have been. Thousands of years of existence, scattered across eons, possessing the vastitude of knowledge of the Creation – what is, what was, and whatever could be - All of it. Contained in one human body. All of it clawing at the fabrics of his being, of his mind, to be released, to expand, to be spread like wings across the planes of space and time and be known - to be set free of its prison.

Watching the Universe rattle the bones of a being that was never meant to be confined underneath the soft and fragile skin of a man, Dean thought of beautiful, exotic birds, locked away in cages and forgotten. Eventually, even birds will forget that they were ever meant to fly.

Two weeks after shredding his wings, Cas started to forget.

ǂ

First came the pacing. Cas would pace the length the library, muttering under his breath. Facts. Locations. Languages Dean didn't recognize. It became a thing. Cas paced paths straight to Hell across their floor, Cas spoke to himself in tongues, Sam graciously ignored it, and Dean worried.

Three days, he lasted. Three days of Cas' frantic pacing and recitation of infinite knowledge before he drove into town and bought Cas journals to transcribe everything he feared he was forgetting. Cas looked upon those journals with absolute reverence, taking them from Dean and holding them close, as if they were frail and ancient tomes at risk of disintegration. To Cas, they may have well been.

Every day, Cas sat in the library and wrote. Every night, Cas took the journals with him to his room.

Every day, Dean waited for Cas to reappear, to be present in the moment, to stop to enjoy a meal, a joke, a hunt. Every day, Dean waited for Cas to come back to him. And every day, Cas emerged from his room, journals and coffee in hand, and kept writing, kept drawing. Kept floating further and further away.

They were on a hunt. A vampire nest. Three man job. It was almost insultingly easy. The three of them went to a bar that night to celebrate, to let off some steam after the weeks of being confined to the close quarters of the Bunker. Sammy met a girl. Dean grabbed Cas' elbow, gave Sam a nod that communicated both " _Have fun_ " and " _Be fucking careful, you idiot_ ," and drove back to their motel.

Dean emerged from a lukewarm shower to Cas pacing the length of the room, reciting an unrecognizable language. As he was paused in the doorway of the bathroom, Cas turned his gaze to him, imploring. Lost.

"I don't have them. I..," Cas breathed, gestured to room around them, empty of anything but their bags, a small table, and two twin sized beds, eyes pleading, empty _empty empty_. "Dean, I have to…"

The look in Cas' eyes... It was all he needed.

Dean pulled the t-shirt in his hand over his head and moved to rummage through Sam's bag. As he sat himself down at the tiny table in the corner of their room, he held out the Sharpie he had found at the bottom of Sammy's bag. Cas had stepped forward, cautious. He grasped the Sharpie between his long, elegant fingers, but paused, tilted his head to stare into Dean's eyes with obvious confusion. As Cas sat down in the opposite chair, Dean turned his body and laid the undersides of this forearms out across the table. An offer. An open and honest offer for his best friend, the fallen goddamned angel.

ǂ

It was a thoughtless gesture.

Thoughtless only because it natural. It was honest. Thoughtless because Dean would sooner set himself on fire than allow Cas to endure one second of grief at the loss of one fragment of vast knowledge.

It was an offering of a small piece of himself for the solace of an infinite mind. A sacrifice for a friend, for family. And then Cas grasped his arm like a lifeline, uncapped the Sharpie with his teeth, and began to write.

And then his scarred and fragile skin became parchment, became a relic of the ancient sounds and symbols that the Earth had long forgotten. Each perfect scratch and whorl etched into his pores, carved into his bones, with something as simple and human as a black goddamned Sharpie.

Dean's skin had become something to be protected, coveted, to be shuttered away from the under layers of his threadbare clothing. He was consumed by the notion that the fibers of his clothes would wear upon his markings, compelling him to roll up his sleeves at half hour intervals to ensure that the ink still perfectly stained his skin. He knows, of course. Time may dull the colors of a painting, but it cannot diminish the immensity of the beauty in the vision.

He protected his markings. Cherished them. They were pieces of Cas, given to him freely. They were a gift. A blessing. Trust in its purest form. If his human body was the cage, then Dean was the key setting Castiel free.

He protected his markings. Loved them. With everything he had. They were pieces of Cas that he could never ask for. Would never ask for. Could never hope to possess. But he was selfish enough to take them, to take every piece, and to want for more.

ǂ

Two days later, Cas held his forearm in a gentle grasp as he transcribed each word, each symbol, into a new journal. Eternity was being archived in the Men of Letters library from the stains upon Dean's arms. For a moment, Dean had tasted infinity. He was a relic of the Universe, destined to be revered – to be held, to be shared, to be known. Never to be forgotten.

Cas had held him in his hands and replicated the masterpiece of his myriad angelic mind written across his pale and freckled skin. And then he rolled Dean's sleeves down over his markings and sent him to wash himself clean.

Archived, wiped clean. Dean was a blank canvas with no meaning. No purpose. No quarter.

Dean was selfish enough to pray for more. To yearn for Cas' markings to be tattooed upon his skin, immortalized in his soul. He was selfish enough to wish he was more. To be boundless. To be legion.

To be worthy of touching Creation once again.

Cas went back to filling his journals.

Dean wanted to forget.

ǂ

Two months. Two months of Cas writing in his journals. Two months of Cas closing his journal and pushing it aside, only to reach out and take Dean's wrist gently in his hand. Two months of Cas grounding himself through records of his knowledge, of evolving, of becoming an artist in every right. Two months of Dean clenching his fist against the gentle warmth wrapped around his wrist, breathing into the sharp pressure of a pen, the cool slide of a Sharpie, the icy strokes of a paintbrush. Two months of Dean struggling to close his eyes against the beauty, the grace, being etched into his skin. Two months of Dean struggling to let go, to let go of the unrealized visions, to let go of the purpose they created within him. He had always had trouble with letting go of things he was never meant to have.

Sometimes, Cas would recreate sigils that were older than the Earth, fusing them with ancient symbols and languages, creating something new. Wards, divine protection, the only blessings a fallen angel could offer from where he was fettered in the mud.

"They're beautiful," Dean had said, voice deep and rough, eyes trained on the table, resisting the pull of Cas' penetrating stare. The hand around his wrist squeezed gently and Dean breathed deeply. "I hate that they're going to get just..," he gestured with his free hand, "washed away."

Cas hummed, turning his gaze back to this work. "I'll copy them down again first. This is more of an idea than anything particularly useful."

Dean lifted his head then, eyes wide, confused, waiting for Cas to raise his gaze back up to meet him.

"Useful? Who gives a shit if they're useful? It's art. Doesn't matter if it can help you, or fix you, or fucking save you. Art doesn't have to serve a purpose, Cas."

Dean was breathing too hard, too shallow, and Cas' brow was furrowed. He dropped his gaze once again to the designs marking his skin, marking him. Cas traced one long finger along the lines and shapes covering the sensitive skin of his forearm and Dean could almost feel the power of the sigils Cas had created igniting under his touch.

"A thing isn't beautiful because it was made to last, Dean." Cas had taken a shaky breath, had tightened his grasp on Dean's wrist before pulling away completely. "Nothing lasts. I suppose, the whole point here is trying to remember that there is anything beautiful on this Earth to continue living for at all."

Dean watched as Cas reached across the table and pulled his journal back to him to begin transcribing everything inked upon his skin. Cas shook his head, pursed his lips, "I've forgotten."

Dean rubbed the ink out of skin in the shower that night until he was raw, aching. Until the water ran cold and he was washed clean. There was no absolution, no meaning, no value. He was crushed under the weight of his insignificance. The only evidence of his cracking – tender skin and red-rimmed eyes – would disappear and be forgotten by morning.

The next day, Cas reached for his wrist and began again. They never spoke another word to one another while Dean was under Cas' hands. But he wouldn't stop. He could never bring himself to tell Cas _no_. Could never deny Cas a moment that would offer him purpose, that would offer him a reason to live. Cas may never see the beauty he was capable of creating, but Dean could do this, could be this. For Cas, Dean would close his eyes and selfishly take what he was given, he would escape his shackles and fly. And when it was over… Well. Dean never truly did believe in anything lasting forever, anyway.

ǂ

It was meant to be a simple salt and burn. Just the two of them. But then again, anything remotely adjacent to _Dean and Cas_ was never that simple.

Now, Dean is spread out on his bed, face down, shirtless, his jeans sitting low on his hips. His head is still spinning, the lights are dim, and he's gritting his teeth against the pain. His eyes are trained on Cas, arms bracing him upon Dean's desk, head bowed and he's shaking like he's going to fall apart before his eyes. The paint is already spread across the palette, the brush is shaking in his hand, but Cas is still turned away, still trembling, still breaking. Dean knows. He may have been unconscious, but Cas watched him fall, Cas held his face between hands that burned his flesh until his eyes blinked awake.

He knows. Cas is devastated. Afraid. Lost. Angry. Everything in between.

Dean knows what it is to be chained to this world. Powerless, hapless, wroth. He knows the weight of guilt, of pain. He knows the prices paid in grief for family, for love.

Cas is drifting, and this time, the journals, the preservation of knowledge – they won't be enough. This is too big. It's too much. He knows.

And he can do this for Cas. He can offer him solace, an escape from his fear, from his own humanity. An escape from the reality that he is enervated, that he can no longer press a fingertip to Dean's skin and erase his pain.

Dean can do this for Cas. Can be this for Cas. Can continue to lay himself bare so that his angel may fly. Because Cas deserves this. Because Dean is selfish enough to covet these moments. Solitary moments of freedom, of expansion, of the idea of scattering his atoms across all of Creation and leaving a mark that cannot be washed away with time.

It's a wonderful idea. As ephemeral as it is beautiful. And he can have it. He is selfish enough to grasp onto it with his small and insignificant human hands.

As Dean closes his eyes against the first cool strokes of paint across his shoulder, he knows that come tomorrow, he will stand before the mirror and search out every inch of skin his eyes can reach. Search every scar, every pore for cause, for purpose. For the smallest speck of paint that could not be washed clean. But there will be nothing to find. Not a trace. A blank canvas once again.

He knows. He knows that this time, becoming a canvas has nothing to do with Cas forgetting, but everything to do with his guilt, with his crime of humanity. This is Cas' lustration, his liberation from the chains of the Earth. This is vindication for the loss of his Grace in his failings.

He understands. After all, Dean is human and flawed and knows that infinity is unattainable when the world is shackled to your feet.

There is pain in his head and an ache in his heart, but he takes a deep breath and pushes it down, sending it all beneath the surface. He turns his mind to Cas, to the warm hand resting over his left shoulder blade, the sharp contrast of Cas' heat against the coolness of the room, against the icy sigils being traced across his back.

He knows. This is Castiel being completely, utterly human. This is Castiel being _Cas_. This is Cas being flawed and broken and fucking perfect. And Dean can give him this. Dean can be this for Cas. Dean will breathe into the aching heat of the palm splayed upon his shoulder, will breathe into the slow, agonizing slides of Cas' paintbrush. It aches, all of it, all of him. It burns in a way that Dean never knew he could be burned. And he breathes into it.

Cas has taught him that he can love to burn.

The paintbrush traces a cold line up the nape of his neck, crossing to the sensitive skin behind his ear, and Dean bites down on a gasp. His fingers clench in the sheets beneath him and he inhales sharply at the scorching sensation of Cas' hand trailing across his shoulder, slowly, a whisper of a touch, coming to rest over the spot that once held his mark. The disparity of heat and frost and touch and agony unravels him.

"I've got you," Cas breathes into his ear, sending electric shocks across his synapses, all of way down his spine. His toes curl, but he wills his fingers to unclench and to breathe and to just feel. He knows. He is safe, Cas' palm rooting him into the moment, into every second of muted heartbeats and slow strokes of a brush. He is safe. He is allowed to let go. His soul is expanding, fusing with the carefully etched sigils spanning his shoulders, with the knowledge of their origin, aching to rise to meet the source, to touch the purity of Infinity with a paintbrush in his hand. He lets go.

Another deep breath and he releases the tension in his muscles. He focuses on the tacky lines of paint drying on his skin, on the searing heat in his shoulder, grounding him. Always grounding him. He reconstructs the sigils, following each slide of the brush, painting pictures in his mind, imprinting them upon his soul, willing them to remain, to endure, if only to save him…if only to save Cas. The wet lines are trailing down his spine, the muscles in his back spasm under Cas' gentle ministrations. It's a long tease. It's a blessing. It's fucked up and confusing. But his body rises to meet the touch and the hand holds firm against his shoulder and he burns _burns burns_.

Flames carve a path across his skin, molding themselves to the back of his neck and he cries out, grinding down against the bed, every muscle in his body clenching against the pain, against the pleasure, against the adoration he knows pervades the gesture. It is at once too much and not enough. And as the brush strokes up his side, across his ribs, he reaches out, grasps at the empty air and flies.

He follows the lines of the sigils, traveling the distance from point to point, tracing out constellations in his mind. His back is covered in an array of protection and healing sigils, but he finds himself reaching for more. His mind paints a starscape across his skin, reaches out toward the cosmos. Dean looks down upon himself from the stars, perched on the edge of the galaxy. He watches the shapes forming in black paint on his human skin, watches their purpose sink beneath the surface. His body is shifting, arching, reaching for and pulling away from every touch and he is free and beautiful and terrible and pure in his utter fucking humanity. Dean looks out across the stars, searching. Searching for his source, for his salvation. He's reaching out his hand, reaching for that heat that has consumed his soul.

He is burning _burning burning_. He is a star reaching across the distance to the sun, grasping at space, begging for collision.

 _I will find you._ _Always you._

The flames upon his neck are receding, tracing a line back to that spot on his shoulder, claiming him, calling him down, anchoring him to the ground. The heat sinks deep down into his bones, disperses through his veins, emanates across his tattered, blackened and blistered soul. Back on the ground, Cas is on his skin, infused in his blood. Cas comprises his atoms, fills his lungs and is bringing him back to life. Dean reaches out across the star fields, into the darkness. He is crawling up through the mud, he is perched on the edge of the Universe. He is reaching, grasping for a hand to pull him up, to pull him down. To pull him in.

On the ground, across the galaxy – Dean still cannot reach him.

He's tired. There is pain in his head and an ache in his heart, and as he comes back down to the ground, he gasps against the scorching touch trailing his arm, entwining with the trembling fingers clenched in the white, linen sheets. The icy strokes of the paintbrush have stopped, leaving only the tacky, itching sensation of drying paint across the expanse of his back. He breathes, eyes shut, and clenches the fingers holding him down, holding him, holding on for dear fucking life.

A weight falls across his back, covering the sigils – covering the galaxy – obscuring everything they are, everything they were meant to me. Everything he was meant to be. He feels the still wet paint skew from their perfectly etched lines, feels the slide of soft, warm cotton over him, and he gasps at the loss, at the shock, at the burn. It's too much. It's not enough. And then he feels the stubbled cheek against his. He feels the weight of Cas. He feels the weight of the tracks of tears on his own face. He feels the trembling, the breaking. He feels the static rub of skin against his skin and he's on fire. He's burning, he's drowning, he's falling _falling falling_.

"You are so beautiful," Cas breathes into his ear. He shudders. He shatters. His hands are clenched in cheap linen sheets, his dick is aching in his jeans, his sweat is beaded on his back, on his forehead, he is trembling, he is grasping. Always reaching. The weight is crushing, pushing him down, pulling him apart. A tears falls, pooling against Cas' cheek. He cannot open his eyes, not to that celestial blue. The fingers holding him lift, pulling his hand up to dry, soft lips. The touch is a balm to the fire and the ice and Dean can sigh relief. This is the end.

On the ground, in reality – absolution is transient. He knows this. It shouldn't hurt this much.

He's choking. Choking on his words, on his wishes, on eternity. Dean wanted to touch the other end of oblivion, beyond the stars, below concrete. And here he lay. Gravity holding him down. Cas holding him down to this bed, to this existence. He breathes in, clenches his fingers tighter around Cas', the realization, the understanding flowing through him, igniting something broken deep within.

He holds Cas on this pedestal. Hangs him amongst the stars. Watches him from his telescope as he washes across the sky. Dean has traveled the distance. From the stars to the sun. From Heaven to Hell and the dirt in between. Grasping. Always reaching. But he's here. Cas is _here_. Broken, flawed, failing, and fated.

 _I found you._

Dean gathers his strength and rolls over until Cas is hovering over him and he is staring into crystalline oblivion once again. He breathes deeply and closes his eyes against the pain, against the vertigo, against those goddamned eyes. He knows the sigils are ruined, obscured by Cas' body, by the sheets beneath him. But they don't matter. They never did. The weight is crushing, all-encompassing, rattling his chains, shaking his bones. Cas is shattering the lies he has forced himself to believe with the absolute truth of his value, of his worth in Cas' eyes. _A thing is not beautiful because it was meant to last_ , Cas had said. Dean understands now. Life is ephemeral. It is short and dark and painful, but there is worth in human life, there is love and adoration. Their existence, this between them... the value cannot be measured in time.

He reaches out a hand, placing it upon Cas' heart, eyes still clenched shut. He feels Cas' body against him. Hard, heated, trembling. Fracturing. They are broken. So fucking broken.

Cas' head drops to rest against his forehead, sweaty and tender and perfect.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I am so sorry, Dean."

Dean's eyes are closed. His breath catches in his throat. The walls are broken, obliterated. The weight of the shackles of his existence are gone. He is held down by his own will, but the body spread over his, by the fire igniting underneath his skin. Another tear slips through. Here, on the ground, absolution is human. It is fear and it is desperation. It is suspended disbelief of our own worth, of the beauty of our fucking mortality. It is recreating the Universe on the ground, borrowing from the stars and learning to shine from within.

They are human, and they are tragic, but they are here, together. For now, it is enough.

Gravity. Pulling him down, anchoring him to reality, to this life. To Cas. It is enough.

Dean can learn to be gravity.

"I know."

ǂ

 _Castiel had said that an artist is nothing without their canvas._

 _One day, Dean will tell him that an artist is a storyteller and his canvas will set him free._

 _One day, Castiel will tell Dean that a canvas is blank slate upon which a story is built and made eternal._

ǂ

 _One day, Dean and Castiel will know that, together, they are Creation._


End file.
